four
Thursday, March 6, 7:55 a.m., Gary’s Diner
“How are you?” Peyton asked, seeing the dark half-moons beneath Stone Gibson’s eyes, when she joined the breakfast crowd in Gary’s.
Gary’s still had the green metal roof from her childhood. She could hear the rain tap-dancing overhead.
“I’m okay,” Stone said.
“What time did you get here?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He stirred sugar into his coffee and looked out the window at Main Street. “Yesterday the snow melted a little, but now the temperatures are dropping again. It’s supposed to turn to freezing rain. Roads will be icy.”
“And the heavy snow will make hiking a bitch,” Peyton said. “But you didn’t answer my question. What time did you get here?”
“You’re not easily distracted. Let’s just say I helped Shirley make the first pot of coffee.”
“Literally?”
He nodded. “You’re drinking from pot number three,” he said. “You missed the one I made.”
“You’ve been here since, what, five a.m.?”
“I read the Sports section twice.”
Shirley, the two hundred-plus-pound silver-haired waitress who once slapped Stone on the butt before learning he was a state trooper, appeared with coffee. She’d been at Gary’s longer than the specials Peyton had eaten there as a middle-schooler with her late father. This day, over her prominent stomach, Shirley wore a T-shirt that read 70 is the new 50!
She poured Peyton a cup of black coffee, said, “Morning, Peyton,” and set a tiny carafe of cream down and dropped sugar packets next to Peyton’s mug.
“I love being in here when it rains,” Peyton said. “That sound on the tin roof. My father used to love it too.”
“He told me that once,” Shirley said.
“Really?” Peyton said. “He wasn’t much of a talker.”
“None of the farmers are. But, in here, after a while, they all open up. I know more about the potato business than newspaper reporters do.” She pointed to Stone’s Bangor Daily.
“Farming isn’t easy,” Peyton said. She’d learned that firsthand. Most farmers in the region relied on an annual loan to operate their farm, which often included their living expenses. If the price of potatoes unexpectedly slipped, or blight razed the crop, the farmer lost it all in a matter of months. If the work or long hours didn’t kill you, the stress would. In her father’s case, all three contributed to his short life.
Shirley looked around the diner. She and Peyton were the only females in the room.
“No, not an easy career,” Shirley muttered, then shuffled off to refill another cup.
“She knows a thing or two herself about hard careers,” Stone said.
“She still working alone in the morning?”
“You mean I don’t count?” Stone said. “I told you I made the coffee.”
“Cute. But seriously, where is all the young help she hired?”
“She told me she lets them sleep in if they have night classes at the community college.”
It made Peyton smile. There was no doubt Shirley would do that. The woman had brought Peyton’s mother, Lois, casseroles for weeks following the death of Charlie Cote.
“There’s just Stan in the back,” Stone said, “and he wouldn’t let me near the griddle.”
“Thank God,” she said. “I’ve seen your eggs.”
Shirley reappeared and took their orders. When she left, Stone looked across the table at Peyton. “So,” he said, “any thoughts on our conversation the other day?”
“Many,” she said.
“I’m all ears.”
“First”—Peyton looked at him, tried to read his face; damn him, she couldn’t—“you know where I stand on this, right?”
“I think so.” Then he frowned, his skin creasing near his eyebrows. “That isn’t a good start. Your talk with Tommy didn’t go well, did it?”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Sorry, but I question people for a living. I know where the conversation is headed.”
“Tommy is eleven, Stone. He thinks his father will never feel obligated to be a part of his life as long as you’re in it.”
“I’d never want to hurt him or do anything that takes him away from his father. Hell, you know my past with my own mother. I wouldn’t want anyone separated from a parent. I’ve been there.”
“And you know Jeff is never coming back into my life. He wanted to, for a while. I said no then, and I’d say no now. He realizes that and has finally moved on. It’s healthy.”
“And Tommy doesn’t understand?”
“He doesn’t know everything between his dad and me. He doesn’t need to know that. Not at age eleven. All he knows is that he loves his dad and wishes he could see him more often.”
Stone stared at her, thinking.
“This is complicated,” Peyton said, when Shirley crossed the room to freshen their coffees. “Of course, I’d never say a bad word about Jeff to Tommy. That would crush him—not because he doesn’t know it, but—”
“Precisely because he does know it,” Stone said. “And he knows why.”
She looked at him. Around them, conversations swirled about crop prices, Red Sox spring training, and Celtics games. But Stone was staring out the window again watching cars move slowly on Main Street like carp roaming a shallow pond.
“You’ve been there?” she said, slowly stirring her coffee.
He only nodded.
“I want you to be a part of our lives, Stone. A larger part. A constant part.”
“I don’t want to come between you and Tommy. If he has no father in his life, he sure as hell needs his mother.”
“Yes,” she said.
They were quiet for a while. Shirley reappeared with eggs for both of them. Peyton ate slowly, watching Stone intently.
“The thing I keep coming back to,” she said, “is that you have so much to offer Tommy. You know what he’s going through, what it feels like to have a parent …” She didn’t want to say it.
But he did. “Make you feel unwanted.”
“You know what he’s going through, Stone. I want you to live with us. I’m going to work on it.”
“If you force it, I’ll never have a chance.”
“I know that too,” she said.
They ate the rest of the meal in silence, Peyton trying—and still failing—to read Stone’s expression.
She was finishing her orange juice when her cell phone vibrated. She recognized the number. “Our surveillance cameras are ready to be picked up and mounted near the shack,” she said.
4:30 p.m., Razdory, Russia
The man in the bed was dying.
That was clear to anyone who saw him. Clear even to the man himself. Victor Tankov—who, at eighty-one, now barely weighed his age—hadn’t bothered to ask his doctor. Didn’t need to. He could feel the tumor in his throat growing, and he’d read the statistics. A year, at most.
It was why he’d begun his search in the first place.
The space on the wall across from his bed was now empty.
He’d left Moscow a month ago, moved to the country house, the one near the river. Had even put the Moscow home up for sale. He knew he wouldn’t return to Moscow. He knew, too, that in this economy so few people could afford the home that he might die with it still in his possession.
And what then?
It wouldn’t be his problem. But Marfa couldn’t handle the business. What would become of it all? He worried about her.
He looked at the vacant space on the wall. That was where the gift would go. Could Marfa handle that too?
Through the window he saw Nicolay drag two sleds through the snow, watched as the giant put the old man’s grandchildren on the sleds, and saw them ride toward the frozen pond.
He couldn’t make out the children’s words through the glass of the double-hung window. His hearing started to fail long ago. But he could see their smiling faces as the sleds bounded down the steep hill.
The children—the eldest, Rodia, in particular—loved the country home. The 1860s Victorian mansion had eight bedrooms, seven baths, and a small pond. While renovations had updated the home, care had been taken to retain the period charm. Victor Tankov was a man who appreciated antiquity and craftsmanship. And Marfa had taken note and promised the gift of a lifetime.
His daughter entered the room. “Still in bed?” Marfa asked.
“It’s hard to get up,” he said, turning back from the window.
She looked at the art magazine on his bedstand. “I knew Art History professors at NYU who read that.”
He smiled. “A self-education is an eclectic one.”
“Not just eclectic,” she said. “You always had a focus. Remember the family vacations? The Louvre in Paris. The Acropolis in Athens. The Met in Washington.”
“It wasn’t Disneyland,” he said.
“No.” She smiled.
“You forgot to mention the Hermitage,” he said.
“Your beloved Hermitage.”
Outside, Nicolay helped the children up the hill. Marfa moved to her father’s side and sat on the edge of the bed. When the bed moved, Victor flinched.
“I’m so sorry, Father.”
“For what?”
“For the way you feel.” She tried to fix his pillow.
The old man waved it off.
“Why don’t you ever let me comfort you?”
“When you’ve lived like I have,” he said, “suffering at the end is part of the price.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there is only one more comfort I want. You know what it is.”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes running to the wall, “but I thought you’d also want me here. I came to be with you.”
“I know you did,” he said.
“And you don’t care?”
“There’s nothing you can do for me.”
She knew that, too, although she didn’t say it. She looked out the window. His timetable had greatly impacted her own. She turned back to him. Looked at him closely. Would he die sooner than she thought? She couldn’t have that. She needed to win, to have him see what she’d done. The irony wouldn’t be lost on a man who loved practical jokes as much as he did. She wanted to be there when the size and scope of her plan occurred to him.
“Dimitri used to love sliding on that hill,” she said.
Victor looked at his daughter. The pain and anger she saw anytime someone mentioned her late brother’s name was there. Then it passed.
“He really did,” she said. “I can still hear his laugh.”
“He had a great laugh. Marfa, take your children and go to the US. Start over.”
She shook her head. “Remember years ago? When you were hurt?”
“I was never hurt,” he said.
“When your tooth hurt. Remember?”
“When I had three teeth pulled?” he said.
“You were in bed. I picked flowers for you. I lay next to you and read you a story from my story book. I was six or seven.”
“I don’t remember,” he said.
“Of course not.”
“Oh, yes. That was when Dimitri made a painting for me,” he said. “It still hangs in the office.”
“And you remember that, of course. But not me reading to you. Why would I think differently?”
“What?” he said.
“Nothing.” She turned to the window. “Why would I think this gift would be any different?”
“What are you saying?” he said. “I can’t hear you.”
She shook her head.
“Marfa, I wish I remembered more of those days. At my age, it’s better to live in the past, because the past is better than the future.”
“That makes no sense, Father.”
“Yes, it does. It means I know the life I’ve led, Marfa. I know what is to come.”
“You’ve been very generous with some people. Some people would say that. And you know it.”
“Generous with some, not so generous with others. But that’s in the past now. The businesses are yours.”
“But not the money?”
“I’ll give you what you need until I’m gone. Then it’s all yours.”
That wasn’t good enough. Not because he’d live forever, but because he wouldn’t.
“I’ll need full access while I’m negotiating,” she said. “Surely you understand that.”
“Why can’t you give me the figure and let me handle that?”
“Father, I’m talking twenty-four or forty-eight hours from when I start negotiating at most. But I need to control the money. It’s a complicated transaction. You must realize that.”
“Yes,” he said. “It’ll be complicated. Good experience for you.”
“Maybe a good experience for you too,” she said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Why don’t you think I can handle the money?” she said.
“Nicolay will help you.”
“I don’t need his help. I’m ready.”
“I wish Pyotr was still here,” he said.
“Why? The divorce is final. He’s gone. I don’t need him either.”
“Yes,” he said, “you do. He’s very smart.”
“I have an MBA.”
“And I’m proud of you, but it means nothing. I have a sixth-grade education and I know business better than those professors you had in America. Pyotr had a businessman’s mind.”
“You can’t be serious. He didn’t have the stomach for this life. That’s why I left him.” She shook her head. “You’ll never understand.”
“Maybe not.”
“I’ll show you what I’m capable of,” she said.
“I hope so,” he said.
She turned to him.
“Are you laughing?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. But she was smiling. “One day, I’ll show you that I’m better than Pyotr.” Then, under her breath, “Better than the son you wish had lived.”
“Marfa, you don’t have to show me anything—”
But she held up her hand, and he didn’t bother to finish.
“I like to think of the good times we’ve had,” he said. “Remember that year you studied in New York City, when your mother and I visited?”
“I miss her every day. She understood me and what I go through.”
“I’ll join her soon.”
“No, Father.” Not too soon, she thought.
He looked at her, reached, and took her hand. “You’re so young.”
“No, I’m not.”
“We both know it’s near,” he said.
“More time,” she said.
“I don’t get to say how much I get. None of us do.”
But he’d misunderstood. She needed more time. Needed him to survive long enough to see just what she was capable of. And that had nothing to do with him receiving the gift. Marfa looked out the window.
He asked, “Are you crying?”
She turned back to him, her eyes absolutely dry. “No.”
“Good.”
“Nicolay is a gentle giant,” Marfa said, changing the subject.
“Giant, yes. Gentle, only to those who deserve it,” her father said.
“He’s been with you a long time.”
“When his father went to prison, he was fifteen. I took him in, gave him work.”
“The Moscow home is sold, Father,” she said.
He looked at her, impressed. “Really?”
She nodded and smiled. “Don’t say you want to sell this home too. The fence and security system took six months to put in place and cost far too much.”
“But we are safer here because of them,” he said and pointed a bony finger to the window. “And the children are safer here.”
“No one would hurt the children.”
“Probably not intentionally,” he said. “You actually found a buyer?”
“I persuaded a buyer.”
She sounded convincing, but Victor didn’t see the something in her eyes that he knew was in his own. He’d never seen it in her eyes. It hadn’t been in his former son-in-law’s either. But Pyotr was gone now, so that didn’t matter. Nicolay, though, had the look. It was why Victor had initially hired him. Nicolay had begun by doing odd jobs, then driving, and finally doing things few others would do. He knew that neither Marfa nor Pyotr were capable of doing those things.
“Send Rodia to a boarding school,” he said, startling his daughter.
“What?”
“Rodia,” he repeated, “my grandson. Send him to a boarding school out of the country.”
“Like you did to me?”
“Yes. Why do you say it like that?”
She didn’t answer.
“He’s not cut out for this life either,” the old man said.
“Either? What are you saying?”
He watched his grandson fall off the sled and roll. “You should move. I can set up an allowance.”
“You don’t think I’m capable of handling the money.”
“I can set up an allowance.”
“I’m not a little girl, Father.”
“It has nothing to do with that. You weren’t successful in school.”
“I earned excellent grades.”
“No,” he said, “not that. You called home crying. You let people push you around. You lost the money I gave you back then.”
“That was a long time ago. And why would I leave now? The country is headed in the right direction, with the right people.”
“Tough people—tough men—are running the country.”
“I’m not begging for the money, Father. I’m not a beggar. I’m a businesswoman.”
“What does that mean?”
She shook her head. He’d soon find out. “You have no idea what I’m capable of. You’ve never given me the chance to prove myself.”
He didn’t speak. He was pale and looked tired.
“I have good news about your birthday gift,” she said.
“Where does it stand? Is it close?”
“The boy is in place,” she said.
“The Ukrainian boy?”
“Yes. He’s in America. It won’t be long now,” she said.
Outside, snow began to fall.
9:10 a.m., McCluskey’s Potato Processing Plant
There was no avoiding him this time.
Peyton had hoped to once again park at the back of the lot at McCluskey’s, walk to the area near the shack, attach the cameras to various trees, and leave without seeing Leaf Ryan. But that wasn’t happening. She rounded the building in her Ford F-150 service vehicle and found him standing in the middle of the lot, hands on hips, staring straight ahead, as if waiting for her.
It was too warm, so the early-morning rain had never completely turned to snow. It was drizzling. For some reason Leaf Ryan wore sunglasses. He took them off and raised one hand for her to stop. His hand was raw and cracked, as if he spent a lot of time outside without gloves.
She stopped and rolled down her window.
“How are you this morning, agent?”
He wore jeans, a leather jacket, and running sneakers. At least there was no way he was hiking several miles into the woods with her, not dressed like that.
“Very well,” she said, “and you?”
“Excellent. What brings you here this morning?”
“I’d like to take a walk through the woods, if that’s alright.”
“It’s raining.”
“Not hard,” she said.
They both knew there was no need for her to seek permission. Three Bushnell wireless hunting cameras, with tree braces, were in the zipped backpack on the passenger’s seat. The hunting cameras would send photos to her phone or iPad via text.
“What’s the power drill for?” he asked.
A yellow DeWalt drill lay next to the backpack; she needed it to mount the tree braces.
“It was in the truck when I got in,” she lied. “Need to use it?”
He smiled. “No, we have plenty of drills.”
“Something wrong, Leaf ?”
“So you’re walking back there again?”
“That was my plan. Have you seen anyone out there recently?”
He shifted and looked down at his Adidas. “Nope.”
She’d asked millions of questions to thousands of people over the years. When someone physically turned away from a question, she knew why.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you if I see anything.”
“I bet,” he said.
She pretended not to hear his sarcastic reply.
The snow base on the trail was close to thirty inches deep, and the morning’s rain turned the snow wet, heavy, and soft. If Peyton hadn’t worn aluminum snowshoes, she’d have exhausted herself slogging through knee- and (if she strayed from the trail) waist-deep snow.
A half mile in, she paused to drink water. The inside of her green Border Patrol ball cap was damp. She’d learned to dress in layers and now wore a long-sleeved Under Armour shirt beneath her eight-pound Kevlar vest, her uniform shirt atop the vest, and her flannel winter field jacket over that. She folded her field jacket and put it in the backpack.
At the shack, she took off her snowshoes and looked around. Leaf Ryan was nowhere in sight. She sat on a fallen tree for several minutes in silence, listening. Only sounds of the forest: birds, branches cracking under the weight of the moisture-laden snow, snow itself slipping and cascading down in clumps to land on the crusty top layer below like stones into hay. No human sounds: coughing, talking, or even shuffling. No one had followed her.
She put on her helmet, climbing harness, and tree spikes, and chose a large maple.
After shimmying thirty feet up, she mounted the first camouflaged camera. The sound of the DeWalt drill shattered the forest’s silence. She didn’t like using the loud drill, but she felt safe doing so this far from McCluskey’s plant.
When all four cameras were attached—pointing at the cabin and, more importantly to her, at the trail coming and going past it—she returned to the ground. She sat on the fallen tree again, drank more water, and ate a Clif Bar.
A coyote led Aleksei Vann to the US, and that was who she wanted to see on the video images. The owner of the shack, at least to her, was secondary. She doubted they would be one and the same. But she’d review the video for both the coyote and the drug dealer, who was important to Stone and Maine DEA. Quid pro quo among law enforcement occurred often, and it seemed appropriate here. Finished with her Clif Bar, she headed back to her truck.
Only when she climbed in behind the wheel and took her phone off vibrate did she realize she’d missed DHHS caseworker Susan Perry’s phone call.
5:55 p.m., Donetsk, Ukraine
Dariya Vann was at his tiny kitchen table. Both chairs across from him were empty now.
He wished there were dirty dishes in the sink. At least then he’d know Liliya ate something. But the sink was empty.
The apartment was silent. Liliya slept often now. He tried to be quiet and felt terrible when he woke her even to eat. It was odd how “fate stage-managed” everything. He’d read that phrase a long time ago, back when he’d been living in Boston reading American novels. Who had written the line? He couldn’t remember, but the phrase was fitting.
Fate had made Liliya a larger part of his life now than she’d been even when she was healthy. Even though her existence depended on him, he felt, after nineteen years of marriage, somehow alone. She was home, physically struggling through each day, and he was out of the house from dawn till dusk most days, trying to earn a meager living.
He took his laptop from his bag and opened it on the kitchen table to continue working on an article he began that morning, a piece for the Kyiv Post. Most of the afternoon had been spent on the streets, in retail outlets, and in bars interviewing residents about the economic impact “the war,” as he described it, was having on the region. He didn’t need to ask about the emotional impact it was having—he saw that each moment he spent at home.
Everything had changed in Donetsk, for the city and for him. Only two years ago, he was discussing national and international politics on a TV set with city and national leaders. Hadn’t been walking the streets, trying to get someone to talk to him. Back then, interviewees came to him, dressed professionally. But his TV career—for now—was over. One too many accusations directed at the prime minister, the producer had told him upon his firing. Translation: too many tough questions asking Donetsk city leaders and the prime minister about being in bed with Putin. It had probably taken a single phone call from the prime minister’s office, and five minutes later he was a freelancer.
Next to his laptop lay a thin reporter’s pad. He was flipping through the pages of the notebook, looking for a particular quote.
If it wasn’t for Liliya—poor Liliya—he might actually enjoy the new career. From a purely journalistic standpoint, after all, freelancing was more rewarding. He selected stories he wanted to pursue, asked questions he wanted answers to, the Prime Minister be damned.
He found the quote. It was hard to concentrate with the neighbor’s kids running in the apartment overhead. The light fixture rattled each time one of the children jumped. Worse were the fights he heard coming from the apartment next door. It seemed to happen every night, drunken shouts always followed by something sounding like porcelain shattering.
“Hi,” Liliya said, her voice a whisper.
He looked up, saw her pushing her walker toward the table, and leapt to help her. She waved him off, but she shuffled around the tiny apartment the way he’d seen the elderly do in nursing homes.
Dariya sat down again. “Did the children wake you? I’ll go up and tell them to be—”
“No. I couldn’t sleep.” She struggled to a chair across from him. “I think of him all the time.”
“Me too. Bohana says he’s going to school. Says his teachers are impressed.”
“It’s hard when you don’t speak English so well.”
“Yes. I know, firsthand.”
“I’m glad he’s with Bohana. She’s been so good to us over the years, sending us what she could, now and then, always writing.”
“Yes. She always wrote.”
“But you said it’s very hard to be there when you don’t speak English well,” she said. “That’s why you left.”
“It wasn’t the only reason,” he said.
“But now we’ve sent Aleksei there, alone, to face that same problem.”
“It wasn’t the only reason I left,” he repeated.
“Then why? One day you just decided to come home?”
“We’ve had this talk many times. I was homesick. I was young.”
“He’s only thirteen,” she said. Dark rings hung beneath her eyes. Even when she’d waited tables until closing, she’d never looked this tired.
“How do you feel? How is your leg?”
“The leg will get stronger. It’s the pain in my stomach. The pain should be gone by now.”
He knew that was true. The doctor had said she’d feel better weeks ago. “I want you to go to a doctor somewhere else.”
She looked puzzled. “Where?”
“Switzerland.”
It made her laugh. “How could I do that?”
He stood, went to the sink, filled a water glass, and set it before her. He did not answer the question.
“I want Aleksei to have an opportunity,” she said. “The one you walked away from.”
“I didn’t just walk away,” he said. “Things weren’t always like this. Don’t forget that. This war has cost me my career, our home, your health.”
“And now our son.”
“We’ll be together again,” he said.
“When? I want him to stay in America, to go to school there.”
“There are other places.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Switzerland has opportunities,” he said.
She sipped her water. “And I want to feel better.” She spoke to the floor.
“You will.” He reached across the table, took her hand gently. “We’ll go to Switzerland, live in the Alps, like you’ve always talked about.”
She smiled. “You’re dreaming. We could never afford that.”
He smelled meat cooking somewhere in the tenement. “I saw a rat going through garbage behind the building,” he said. “These people live like animals. They just throw garbage out the windows.”
“I miss our home.”
“You’re my home,” he said. “Let me make you something to eat.”
“No. I’m tired. I’ll go lie down.”
He watched her cross the room with her walker and turn left into the tiny bedroom.
Feet pounded the ceiling above him again as he returned to his work. Specks of plaster floated down from the ceiling. The WiFi was spotty, but it connected, and he saw the new email and stopped typing. The message was from TEDO1.
Aleksei is doing well. Saw him today. Looks like you. Hope your wife is feeling better. You can cut your travel time in half if you fly the first leg. Buyer is paying for your ticket. What are your plans for going back? OS account is all set. Buyer knows 30 is a deal. It’s worth 150M.
Dariya knew the value of it. And he didn’t like discussions over email, not about the transaction. Skype or Google Hangouts were better.
Why only two lines about Aleksei? Everything else in the message was repetitive, even unnecessary, except the airline ticket and the offshore account information. That was finally done. But the accounts were supposed to be separate, with fifteen million going in each. The email referenced only one account. What was that about? He’d stopped trusting people long ago. One account and two sellers? He could do the math.
Dariya stood and crossed the kitchen, tossed another log into the woodstove. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the small window above the sink. He hated this rented apartment, but the Buk tore a hole the size of a garage door in the house they’d called home for ten years. That home and even that past life, thanks to the war and to his termination, were gone.
He thought of the fifteen million dollars. It wasn’t one hundred and fifty million, but it was more than enough. Fate stage-managed everything. It was Raymond Chandler who wrote that line. And Chandler was right: circumstances dictate everything in your life. Dariya knew his circumstances changed three months ago when their house shook and screams woke him.
And he knew they were about to change again.
12:30 p.m., Garrett Middle School
“I had meetings scheduled all day and had to find one I could cancel in order to squeeze you in,” Garrett Middle School Principal Peter Thomas, Ph.D., said Thursday after lunch.
He met Peyton and Susan Perry at the front door, and they followed him down the hallway.
“Just let me deliver these papers,” he said.
“Of course,” Susan said.
They waited in the hallway while he entered the guidance office.
“I think he’s trying to make sure we believe this year’s tax bill is worth it,” Peyton said.
“Everyone tries to seem busier than they are,” Susan said. “You know how that goes.” She was holding a bottle of VitaminWater.
Thomas reappeared, and they followed him.
“Sorry I couldn’t meet sooner,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m terribly busy. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Susan Perry said and glanced at Peyton.
Peyton let it go. The last work meeting she attended had taken place two weeks ago. Mike Hewitt had called all-hands-on-deck after an intelligence report stated more than two thousand Westerners were now part of the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria (ISIS). A principal Western player was from Boston. The former Massachusetts resident’s picture was pinned to the sun visor in most Houlton Sector service vehicles.
Maybe she was being egocentric, but what the hell could be so pressing in the world of a middle school principal?
“The fight started in the locker room before gym class?” Susan Perry asked after they positioned themselves around a table in a conference room near the principal’s office.
Thomas turned from Peyton to Susan and nodded. He had blond hair cut short, and Peyton had seen him coaching Little League games.
“Tell us about that,” Susan said.
“Does this matter require the Border Patrol?” Thomas asked. “I can see why you need to know about it. You’re his social worker. But I’m a little surprised that you brought Agent Cote.”
“I called Peyton,” Susan said. “She has a solid rapport with Aleksei Vann. I’d like her insights when we talk to him.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. He punched a kid. I’ll handle this.” Thomas glanced at his framed doctorate, which hung on the wall to Peyton’s right.
Was he glancing at it for reassurance? Peyton looked at the pale, lithe first-year principal and thought he probably needed it.
“What do you have planned?” she asked.
“I’m going to teach Aleksei that this isn’t Russia. You don’t go around strong-arming people.”
“He isn’t Russian,” Peyton said.
“Yes, I know.”
“Do you?” Peyton asked.
Susan finished her VitaminWater and set the plastic bottle in a recycling container near Thomas’s desk. “What’s Aleksei’s side of the story?”
Thomas folded his arms across his chest. “I haven’t asked him yet.”
Peyton uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, forearms on her thighs. “You know there’s a bullying—”
Thomas’s head shook back and forth immediately, as if the word itself triggered his denial.
“—problem in this district.”
“That’s inaccurate.”
“The newspaper has published several articles about it.”
“The paper’s definition of bullying is fairly broad.”
“Who started the fight?” Susan interjected.
“I haven’t determined that yet.”
“Part of my role is to help Aleksei adapt to his new surroundings,” Susan said. “I’d like to get Aleksei’s side of the story.”
“Just don’t tell me how to run my school,” Thomas said.
“It’s not actually yours,” Peyton said, “and since she’s a taxpayer, she technically can tell you how to run this school.”
Thomas looked at Peyton. “And I can ask you to leave.”
“Yes, you can ask,” she said. “But I won’t.”
They waited in silence for several minutes before Aleksei Vann appeared.
There was no way he’d lost the fight. That was Peyton’s first thought when Aleksei entered the office.
He paused outside the door, looked through the glass, and, after checking to see who was there, tapped on the window. Thomas waved him in.
There was an empty seat between Peyton and Susan, and Aleksei hesitated.
“Have a seat, Aleksei,” Thomas said.
The thirteen-year-old did.
“Hi, Aleksei,” Susan said. “Remember me?”
He nodded.
Peyton loved Susan’s soothing voice; everything about the woman seemed to emanate calm. Hell, if she worked with Susan Perry, she wouldn’t need to go to the dojo in the evenings and hit people to release her tension. She’d just have lunch with Susan each day.
“And you remember Agent Cote?”
He nodded.
Thomas leaned forward. “We understand there was a problem in the locker room this morning.”
Aleksei shook his head. “
.” He caught himself. “No problem,” he corrected.
Thomas leaned back in his seat and looked from one woman to the other. “See this?”
“See what?” Peyton asked.
“This attitude,” Thomas said.
“I see you getting frustrated,” Peyton said. “That’s all I see.”
Susan cleared her throat. “May we move on?”
Thomas sighed. “Scotty Champaign was in here an hour ago with a broken nose. He told me you hit him. I’m pretty sure he’s also got a concussion. That means he can’t play in the basketball game this weekend.”
Aleksei sat staring at the man. He was only thirteen, but Peyton could see it in the boy’s eyes: he wouldn’t break. He would outlast Peter Thomas, Ph.D.
Thomas saw it too. And he didn’t like it. “Tell me what happened,” Thomas said.
“He push me and tell me go back to Russia.”
“And what did you do?”
“I tell him”—he shook his head—“not from Russia.”
“Then you hit him.”
“No. I did not.”
“I think the important lesson we’re all learning here, Dr. Thomas,” Susan Perry said, “is that some of your students need to be educated in regards to what’s going on in the Ukraine. To accuse a Ukrainian of being Russian, given the political climate, may be insulting to some people.”
Aleksei offered no reaction. He stared straight ahead at Thomas.
“I don’t think it’s our kids who have the problem,” Thomas said. “Aleksei, I know you punched Scotty. Do you know that I can suspend you?”
A tiny smile creased Aleksei’s lips.
“You think that’s funny?”
Peyton watched the interaction, saw Thomas’s rising fury. Certain attributes and strengths must be earned. Inner fortitude is one of them. And Thomas had yet to earn a substantial level of it. His inability to deal rationally with a thirteen-year-old was sad, and, given what he did for a living, a little scary.
Aleksei sat perfectly straight in his chair and looked Thomas in the eye and finally spoke. “No, I do not think it funny. My mother say education is gift. I not go to school after the war started. So, no, losing my chance—” He thought, trying to piece the sentence together, couldn’t, and shrugged. “Education is not funny. I think is funny that no one knows how much I value it.”
Peter Thomas opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as if it took him a few moments to process what the boy had said. And to process the subtle insult. “What happened in the locker room?”
“He pushed me down.”
“What did you do?” Thomas asked.
“I got up. I will always get up.”
“And then?”
The metaphor made Peyton smile—he was a kid who surely would get up after being pushed down.
Aleksei shrugged.
Thomas shook his head. “Go back to class.”
Aleksei looked at Peyton. She nodded, and he stood and left.
When the door closed behind him, Peyton said, “Did you know he’s read Crime and Punishment in Russian?”
“I haven’t read that book in English,” Thomas said.
Peyton nodded. “Most adults haven’t, never mind a middle-schooler.”
“Clearly he’s having adjustment issues, Dr. Thomas,” Susan said. “Can you work with your teachers about stressing empathy?”
Thomas blew out a long breath. “I can try, but the kid is from a different place. He needs to learn to fit in.”
“Assimilation isn’t the answer,” Susan said. “Embracing differences is.”
Peyton stood. “This school should embrace him. He has lots to teach the kids here—not taking their education for granted is the first lesson.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Thomas said, “but we still don’t know what went on in that locker room.”
“Oh,” Peyton said, “I think we do.”
8:35 p.m., Razdory, Russia
Marfa was in the kitchen of her father’s country home, making popcorn for her children, Rodia and Anna, when Nicolay entered.
“You skate very well,” Nicolay said to Rodia and tousled his hair.
The mansion might have been built in the 1860s, but the kitchen was a sprawling sequence of stainless steel, granite, and track lighting. On the island dominating the center of the room, Marfa separated the popcorn into two bowls. A laptop lay between the bowls. It was black with a red sticker on the front.
Nicolay dwarfed nearly everyone he’d ever met. He took a plate of cold cuts and a bottle of beer from the fridge and sat across the kitchen, watching Marfa work at the island. She heard the chair creak under his weight and could feel his eyes on her back as she poured two glasses of juice for the children. She set the juice before the kids and turned to him. “How is Father?”
“Resting quietly. You upset him.”
She glanced at the children; they ate and sipped, neither following the conversation over the crunching of their popcorn. She poured a glass of juice for herself and sat across from Nicolay.
“Why do you say I upset him?”
He shrugged. “He was tired after you left his room. What did you say to him?”
“That’s really none of your business.”
“I helped raise you, Marfa.”
“My mother raised me,” she said, “and we both know that.”
“She’s been gone a long time,” he said. “God rest her soul.” They were quiet for a time. Then he asked, “Why do you dislike him so much?” His beard was thick—she couldn’t recall a time when he didn’t have it—and white now.
“He’s my father. I love him.” She drank some juice.
Nicolay rolled a slice of ham around a piece of cheese and bit into it. “Odd way of showing it.”
“Not so,” she said. “Father knows I love him.”
“You ought to make sure he knows it, given all he’s done for you.”
“My mother gave me all I have,” she said. “Father doesn’t think I can get out of my own way.”
“He just worries about you.”
“No. He worried about Dimitri; he thinks I’m helpless. There’s a difference.”
Nicolay drank some beer and whispered something under his breath.
“What did you say?”
He shook his head.
“I heard you, Nicolay. I heard what you said.”
“What I said is true, Marfa. In some ways you are helpless.”
“And what ways are those?”
“I don’t want to have this conversation. You know I think of you as the daughter I never had.”
“He doesn’t think I can handle things when he’s gone.”
“I’m only sixty. He knows I’ll be here to help you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He stopped chewing. “You did that time in New York City.”
“I was twenty-three.”
“That was old enough,” he said. “I was on my own at twenty-three.”
“You were on Father’s payroll at twenty-three.”
“I was working for your father.”
“I’m every bit as independent as you,” she said.
He smiled sadly.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m confused. I thought you’d want my help when your father passes on.”
“I don’t want anyone’s help. I will run everything.”
“Alone? What are you saying, Marfa? I’ve been with your father my entire life. When he’s gone, I’ll work for you. And I’ll help you.”
She drank her juice and set the glass before her. “What kind of help would that be?”
“Help running it all,” he said.
“Is that what you do for my father?”
“Your father doesn’t need—” He tried to stop before he finished. But it was too late.
She rose and took her glass to the sink. Then she kissed each child on the head and said, “Uncle Nicolay will clean you up after snack, children.”
“Marfa, I’m not your nanny.”
She shot the large older man a look, her eyes never leaving his as she repeated, “Uncle Nicolay will clean you both up. I have important things to discuss with Papi.” Their eyes locked.
And then she turned and left the room.
3 p.m., Garrett Station
“Have you spoken to Aleksei Vann about his father?” Mike Hewitt asked Peyton on Thursday afternoon.
She was seated at her desk in the bullpen, Hewitt standing behind her. He held a copy of the translated version of the twelve-page letter Dariya Vann had sent his sister, Bohana. She could see Hewitt’s handwriting in the margins of his copy. Jimenez was at the adjoining desk, doing something on his computer.
“No.” She turned in her chair to face him. “Not since Bill Hillsdale was here. What’s up?”
Hewitt was looking at Jimenez’s computer screen. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Nothing, Mike.” Jimenez clicked out of the screen, and the US Border Patrol website, set as his home screen, appeared.
“You’re playing fantasy basketball.”
“Just checking the results, sir. Just taking a thirty-second break.”
Peyton had watched Hewitt cry in a hospital room when Jimenez had been shot a few years earlier. The former Marine had sat in that hospital like a father waiting for his son to wake up, day and night, for nearly a week. He was still a father figure to Jimenez, and Peyton knew what was coming.
“Take breaks on your own time, Miguel. If you need to blow off steam, do some sets on the bench press in the back. I’m in no mood to babysit your ass right now. Peyton, come to my office.” He walked away without waiting.
Peyton stood, gathered her iPad, and glanced at Jimenez.
“That guy always kicks my ass.”
“Because he sees potential,” she said and walked to Hewitt’s office.
“Close the door,” Hewitt said.
She did, and then sat across from him. He had a stack of printed emails on his desk.
“You know, if you got an iPad, you wouldn’t need to print everything.”
He looked at her. For a second, she thought he was going to bite her head off too. Then he broke into a large grin. “You and your daily technology advice.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the latest iPhone.
“What?! Mike Hewitt has an iPhone?”
“Keep your voice down,” he said. “This thing is a disappointment. My flip phone worked better.” He took out his reading glasses, pressed them into place with his index finger like a librarian, and said, “How the Christ do I turn it on? I know how to turn it off, but I can never get the thing started again.”
“It’s not a lawn-mower engine, Mike. You don’t ‘get it started.’ You leave it on. Hold the power button down until it comes on.”
“Same as to turn it off ?”
“Yeah.”
“Who designs these Goddamn things?” he said. “Same exact thing to turn it off and on.” He shook his head. “How the hell was I supposed to figure that out?”
She watched him turn the phone on. He pressed the button, then stared at the phone as if waiting to see if what Peyton said was correct. The apple appeared in the center of his phone, then the home screen. He shrugged and turned it off again and put it back in the drawer.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“No one called. I’m putting it away.”
She leaned back in her chair, covering her mouth with one hand.
“What are you laughing at?” he said.
“May I make a suggestion, Mike?”
“You never seem to hesitate to do so.”
“Leave the phone on.”
“I turn it off when I’m not using it,” he said.
“Why?”
“I always closed my flip phone. It’s like hanging it up, right?”
“Mike, that defeats the purpose.”
“What? Why?”
“Look,” she said, then she caught herself, “that’s a longer conversation for another time. What did you want to tell me about Aleksei Vann’s father?”
“I read the letter you got from Bohana. Nothing very much in it. The boy’s mother sounds as if she’s badly hurt.”
“Nothing in the letter helps us to know who brought the boy here,” she agreed.
“Think that’s by design?”
She shrugged.
“You get the boy to tell you who brought him yet?”
“I don’t think Aleksei knows the man,” she said, “and that is definitely by design.”
“And the kid’s scared to say anything he does know because the guy threatened to kill his father?”
“Yes. I’m trying to gain his trust.”
“That might be a slow process. Might be impossible.”
“He’ll never jeopardize his father’s safety.”
Hewitt nodded. “His father, given that letter, is about all he has.”
“Agreed.” She looked at a photo on the wall of Hewitt standing over a slain deer. “Russia’s annexation of Ukraine has left his family in shambles.”
“Which means Aleksei’s not likely to risk what he has left of it,” Hewitt said. “So where does that leave you?”
“Bohana knows something, maybe who brought the boy.”
“And she’s not saying?”
“Nope. Not yet.”
“The State Department called this morning. The father, Dariya Vann, wants to visit his son in the US for a week.”
“Excellent. If he comes here, we can ask him all the questions we want to.”
“Doubtful. Besides, that’s not exactly how Bill Hillsdale sees it.”
“He thinks the father will try to stay—immigrate or get here and run? Come on, Mike. The boy’s mother is severely injured. Dariya can’t be away from her for longer than a week.”
“Or, at least, that’s what Dariya’s saying.”
“So Bill Hillsdale is nervous?”
“That’s not the word for it.” Hewitt smiled. “Hillsdale is beside himself.”
“This isn’t the Texas border. Doesn’t he see that?”
“Bill is a nice guy,” Hewitt said. “Actually, he’s a funny guy too. But he can’t see the forest for the trees. And, besides, everybody I know in Citizenship and Immigration Services is paranoid right now. But, Christ, this station went through a similar mentality following nine-eleven.”
She nodded. She knew the reaction of the USCIS was predictable, perhaps even understandable to the members of Garrett Station. September 11, 2001, was a black eye on Garrett Station. Two of the 9/11 terrorists entered the US at this border. And members of this station would never forgive themselves, especially Hewitt, who’d been the Patrol Agent in Charge at the time.
What had that failure led to? Community members would say it had led to a royal pain in the ass. In the months following 9/11, agents made a habit of “routine” checks, stopping people to search vehicles. The state police liked it because it slowed drug trafficking. But it also led to a lot of community resentment. Peyton knew that was why Houlton Sector Headquarters had offered local media outlets a press release announcing her return. BORSTAR Agent Returns Home had been the headline, embarrassing her but putting a hometown face to the agency that had ramped up efforts by inconveniencing residents.
“Is Dariya Vann in the US?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“Is there a timeline for his arrival and departure?”
“I’m waiting for dates.”
“For what it’s worth, Aleksei told me his father was staying in the Ukraine until Putin had been defeated.”
“Well, maybe he sees the writing on the wall.”
“I was going to go to Bohana Donovan’s to check in with Aleksei after school. He got into a fight today.”
“Really?”
“Someone teased him.”
“Given his trip to the US, that’s probably not a good idea. Must be a resourceful kid.”
She nodded. “I’ll tell you what I learn. Now, let me see your iPhone, Mike. I’ll show you what it can do.”
He hesitated, then sighed and opened the drawer again.
3:45 p.m., 31 Monson Road
Late Thursday afternoon, Michael Donovan pulled off Monson Road to a driveway in front of a small Cape-style home, behind which ran the Aroostook River. He got out of the battered 2005 Ford F-150—which his father called “the parts truck” because the pickup’s primary use was running parts to and from the dealership—and looked around carefully.
Four months earlier, he’d been granted early acceptance to the University of Maine’s Art History program. But recently he’d read several articles and blogs indicating that one’s acceptance could be revoked if you were convicted in a criminal proceeding. And since this afternoon the pickup was being used to transport something very different from truck parts, he was leery.
There were no other vehicles in the driveway, no traffic along Monson Road, so he reached beneath the seat, removed the plastic baggie, and walked to the front door. It opened before he knocked.
The boy standing before him, his best friend since age five, looked tired and pale, his head shiny under the hall light, his eyes sunken.
“Howdy, butthead,” Davey Bolstridge said with a smirk.
Michael said, “How are you feeling today?”
“I hurt all over, man.”
“Well, I brought you something for that,” Michael said and closed the door behind him.
Inside, he followed Davey across the kitchen toward the living room and bath at the far end of the house. But they stopped in the hallway and without speaking descended the stairs to the basement.
Michael couldn’t help but think about the previous spring when Davey had been Garrett High’s 220-pound clean-up hitter. Michael had rarely played, and the kids on the team gave him a good-natured teasing when he produced a small sketchpad from his bag and sat on the bench, glove beside him, penciling scenes of his teammates in the field diving and running. But Davey was different; baseball was his life, yet now he looked like the team’s scrawny freshman manager.
Michael thought, too, of what he’d read on the Internet about kidney cancer. About the statistics. About the words fatality rate.
Davey went to the basement window and reached for it, tried to slide it open. Couldn’t. “The U-Maine coach called the other day,” he said. “He asked how I’m doing. Didn’t tell him I can’t even open a friggin’ window.”
“You’ll be playing there in the fall,” Michael said, and he pulled the window open. “That’s still the plan.” He held up a fist. “Roommates, right?”
Davey gave him a fist pump but didn’t make eye contact.
“You still want to study your art?” Davey said.
“It’s not mine,” Michael said. “That’s why I love it—it’s created for the benefit of humanity. No one owns it. No one has the right to do so.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Davey said. “When you talk like that I think you’re about fifty years old.”
“You’re a butthead,” Michael said.
“That’s better. Glad the coach can’t see me. I’ve got the strength of a first-grader.”
“No, man. You’re just forgetting that I’m a hulk.” Michael grinned and handed Davey the bag.
Davey took it to the workbench, reached beneath it, pulled out the wrappers, and went to work, rolling a marijuana cigarette.
“Being down here can’t be good for you,” Michael said. “It’s cold and damp, and your immune system is weak.”
“Don’t have much choice. You know my parents.”
Michael did know Davey’s parents, had known them all his life. They didn’t believe in medical uses for marijuana. Didn’t believe in a lot of things. But they did believe in Jesus.
“The pain is so bad sometimes. Remember that time I fell out of the treehouse and you thought I was dead? It’s like that, all day, all night. This is the only thing that helps.”
“It’s legal for situations like yours,” Michael said.
“Not according to my parents. They keep saying God has a plan.”
“And suffering is part of it?” Michael said.
“Actually”—Davey lit the cigarette—“that’s right. They say Jesus Christ suffered for us all. And I’m suffering like him.”
Two lightbulbs lit the room, casting elongated shadows across the cracked cement floor. Part of the foundation was stone. Several plastic storage containers were stacked on one wall. Michael could see Christmas lights in one of the clear boxes. The washer and dryer were set on pallets to raise them off the basement floor.
Davey crossed the room to stand near the open window. “You should see this place in the spring, when the river rises. You can fish down here.” He took a long hit and blew it out the window. “Sure you don’t want to try it?”
“Man, we’ve had that discussion already. It’s not for me.”
Davey nodded. “Thanks for doing this. The pain, man …”
“I know. Thought you were coming to school to visit today.”
“Felt shitty this morning.”
Michael pushed himself up and sat on the dryer.
Davey took another hit. “I saw what your cousin did in the locker room over at the middle school. It was all over the Internet. He getting suspended?”
Michael shrugged. “He needs to relax. It’s all I heard about today.”
“There’s a picture of Scotty Champaign on Instagram. Looks like your Russian broke his nose.”
“He’s not Russian. And he’s not mine.”
“Whatever. Scotty Champaign, Mr. Bigshot Basketball Player—the high school varsity coach had him come to a practice last week. Got what he deserved, I’m sure.”
Michael shrugged.
Davey said, “Remember the middle school lockers?”
“When we were in seventh grade?”
“Yeah. That sucked. Well, maybe Scotty tried to shove your cousin into one and got more than he was bargaining for.”
“Probably,” Michael agreed.
Across the basement, the furnace kicked on, rumbling to life.
“When does your mom get home?” Michael asked.
“She’s got the last shift tonight. She went to McCluskey’s at three. Dad usually gets home around seven. No idea what he does after work.”
He took another hit. Michael watched the joint’s red tip glow softly in the sparse light.
“You ever get scared?” Davey said.
“Yeah, I guess. Why?”
“Forget it.”
“What is it?”
“I mean really scared, like about dying. Ever think about it?”
“Not really,” Michael said.
“I do, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“You know why? You understand?”
“Of course.”
Davey looked out the window. “I don’t want to die, you know? I want to go to U-Maine with you in the fall. See college girls. Do college things.”
“You will, man. We’re rooming there, remember?”
Davey took another hit and closed his eyes. “Yeah, I remember. I sent my deposit in.” He blew out his breath. His eyes were red.
“I should go,” Michael said. “Dad will be home soon. He’ll want to have another father-son talk. That’s what he calls them. It’s really him telling me how I should live my life, and me nodding.”
“At least your old man wants to talk about things.”
Michael looked at him, but Davey turned away.
4:25 p.m., 7 Drummond Lane
Peyton had changed out of her uniform greens into jeans and a gray plaid flannel shirt she’d gotten at Old Navy the last time she’d driven two and a half hours south to Bangor. But she didn’t go directly home. Instead, she pulled her Jeep Wrangler into the driveway at Bohana Donovan’s home Thursday evening.
“I hope I’m not interrupting dinner,” she said when Bohana answered the door.
“Dinner?” Bohana held the door open. “I haven’t even thought about it yet. I might be Americanized, but I will never understand why Americans eat so early.”
Bohana was not dressed in Old Navy discount attire—that much was clear. She wore a cashmere sweater and capris that fit too well to have been purchased at the tiny Aroostook Centre Mall.
Peyton had to comment on the capris. “I love those.”
“It’s probably too early to wear them, but spring is in the air. Finally.”
Peyton smiled. “It doesn’t feel like spring today.”
They’d moved from the entryway into the kitchen.
“But I ordered them online. Donna Karan. So I simply have to wear them.” She smiled at Peyton. “What brings you by?”
“I wanted to check on Aleksei.”
“You heard about today?”
“I was called to the middle school.”
“The other students don’t understand him.” Bohana opened the stainless-steel refrigerator and took out two Diet Pepsi cans. “And Scotty Champaign is a bully, according to my son. Would you like a drink?”
Peyton nodded. “Thank you.”
“Glass?”
“The can is fine,” Peyton said. “I just want to offer Aleksei a little support. Is he home?”
“That’s very kind. He’s upstairs. Follow me.” Bohana led her through the living room, where they paused near a couch on which a teenaged boy lay sprawled. “This is my son, Michael,” Bohana said.
Michael lay looking at a book titled Rembrandt: His Life and Work in 500 Images.
“You like art?” Peyton asked.
He smiled as if to say No shit, lady. She’d always found teenagers much harder to interrogate than adults because you couldn’t fool them. This one wore distressed jeans, white athletic socks, and an orange Moxie T-shirt. He needed a shave, and his hair was unkempt. An Art major, if she’d ever seen one.
“Some art I like,” he said.
“Not all?” Peyton asked.
“Not everything should be called art. People try to pass anything off as art. But not all of it holds up.”
“You’re a smart guy.”
Bohana said, “He always has been. He was accepted into the Art History program at the University of Maine and will live in an honors dorm.” Bohana patted his leg.
“Mom, stop.”
“Your mother’s proud of you,” Peyton said.
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Keeping an eye on your cousin?” Peyton asked him.
“He’s not at the high school,” Michael said and sat up.
When he did, Peyton smelled his strong cologne. But, she thought, for a split-second, she also caught a faint, ever-so-subtle hint of marijuana. Yet his eyes weren’t dilated; nothing about him seemed impaired.
She followed Bohana upstairs, where they found Aleksei hunched over his desk, his left index finger moving back and forth over the page of a textbook, his right hand scribbling notes into a spiral binder.
He looked up when they entered, eyes narrowing momentarily before nodding at the realization.
“Hello,” Peyton said.
“I in trouble?”
Peyton sighed. Bohana sat down on the edge of Aleksei’s bed. She motioned Peyton to an upholstered leather chair. Peyton crossed the bedroom and couldn’t help but think of Tommy’s room. It wasn’t much larger than the closet in this “guest room,” which offered a skylight and flat-screen TV.
“Do you feel like you’re in trouble anytime you see me?”
He turned on his wooden chair to face her. “I did not start fight today.”
“I know that,” she said.
“Then why …?”
“Why am I here?”
He nodded.
“To see how you’re doing. Just to ask that question, and to see if maybe I can help.”
He looked at her for several moments, then he turned to look at Bohana. Bohana smiled and nodded encouragingly.
“They tease me,” he said, turning back to Peyton.
“The kids at school?”
He nodded. “Call names, and do not like when I answer all questions.”
“Watch your prepositions. ‘All the questions.’”
Aleksei sat looking at Bohana.
Peyton said, “They call you names during class?”
Again, he nodded.
Peyton had no doubt other kids didn’t appreciate his academic drive. “You spoke passionately about your education earlier today. Many kids your age don’t appreciate their educations.”
“No. They do not. I study most of night.”
“Maybe too much,” Bohana interjected.
Peyton watched her. Bohana looked at him with parental concern, the way a daunting mother might, not as an aunt who’d only known this boy for several days.
He shook his head. “Not too much. It”—he paused, searching for the words—“is not too much for me.” He smiled at finding the correct verb tense.
“I know you’re trying to honor your mother’s wish for you,” Bohana said, “but you can’t live on three hours’ sleep.”
Peyton was thinking of how much others—including her own son—could learn from this boy. How much Tommy and other US kids could learn from many of the children she’d dealt with during her career. The kids she’d come in contact with overcame third-world problems that dwarfed the first-world issues her own child faced.
“Who knows you’re being bullied at school?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “No matter.”
She didn’t believe that. Not for a second. “It matters. Someone at the school should be looking after you.”
“It does not matter,” he said. “Not to me.”
He was pale and very thin. But his eyes were bright and intense. And there was an energy in them—at thirteen years old, no less—that she hadn’t often seen among the people with whom her work usually brought her in contact. The sad truth of the criminal justice system, she’d admit only when she chose to be absolutely honest with herself, was that most people who committed the crimes she dealt with—the pushers, the mules, the illegal aliens, the desperate border jumpers—were born with two strikes on them already. Those people lacked the razor’s-edge she heard in Aleksei’s voice and the acute light she saw in his eyes. If most of the people she routinely dealt with ever possessed these qualities, life had extinguished such hopeful attributes quickly. She didn’t want that happening again, not to this kid.
“What do your teachers say when kids call you names?” she said.
“They do not know.”
“Of course.” She remembered how sneaky and mean kids could be. How it felt to be different. Her difference had been economic. Not quite the same thing, but different, nonetheless.
“I’ll be around to help you,” she said.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
She felt Bohana looking at her, probably wondering the same thing. “Just that,” she said and stood. “I’ll be around.”
“At school?” he asked.
“Keep working hard,” she told him. “And one more thing—have you heard from your father?”
“No,” he said.
In the hallway, Bohana closed Aleksei’s door softly. As they descended the stairs, Bohana said, “May I ask what you meant by that, Peyton?”
“Just what I said. I’ll be checking in.”
“I’m acting as his guardian. He’s my nephew.”
“I know,” Peyton said.
She didn’t want to engage but didn’t want to be rude, either. She needed access to Aleksei to find the coyote who brought him here. So she needed Bohana on her side, especially now that it looked like Aleksei’s father—the man who hired the mysterious coyote—was arriving soon.
“But my own son had run-ins with some kids last year, and the school didn’t do much.”
“You’ll see that he isn’t bullied?” Bohana asked.
“That’s not realistic. I wanted to stop by and let him know I’ll do what I can. I mean, the school—this community, for that matter—ought to be embracing this boy. He adds diversity, which we don’t have much of up here. Aleksei has a lot to teach us all.”
They’d reached the entryway. Bohana stood staring at her. Peyton wondered what she was thinking.
“I appreciate your concern, Peyton,” she said. But her eyes told Peyton something else: she wanted Peyton to desist, but couldn’t (or wouldn’t) say that.
Why not?
“It’s no problem,” Peyton said. “Have you heard from your brother?”
“Why would I?”
“Hasn’t he contacted Customs and Immigration Services?”
“Why would he?”
“I thought he was hoping to come here to check on Aleksei.”
“Is he?”
Peyton didn’t answer. What was this dance they were doing? Bohana must know her brother planned to visit. Wouldn’t Aleksei’s father have contacted her to see how his son was faring in the US?
“Have a nice evening, Bohana,” Peyton said and stepped outside.
The warm day had turned to a cold, dark evening. The breeze stung her face.
6:10 p.m., Tip of the Hat Bar and Grill
Destiny.
That’s what Ted Donovan was thinking about, seated in a window booth after work on Thursday.
His navy-blue button-down shirt had his name stitched across the breast pocket and matched his Dickie’s work pants. The steel toe of his right boot was worn bare and shone under the bar lights because at work he had the habit of always dropping his right knee when bending to change a tire or examine an exhaust pipe. He shifted uncomfortably and remembered the screwdriver in his pocket, pulled it out, and tossed it onto the table. It clattered near his glass.
“Want anything else, Teddy?” Becky asked him.
He grabbed the screwdriver and looked at it. “Another beer.”
“I must be a mind reader.” She wiped her hands on her apron and walked toward the bar.
He didn’t smile at the joke. Just watched her go, enjoying the way her jeans fit, remembering how she’d looked in high school. She hadn’t changed much. Crow’s feet now at the corners of her eyes, but, he had to admit, she’d aged a hell of a lot better than he had. Back then he’d been the point guard; she’d been the cheerleader. Now here they were, still in this tiny border town a few decades later.
He finished the Bud Light before him and took the dinner knife from the napkin-wrapped silverware set and worked it like a cuticle cleaner, prying remnants of oil from beneath his fingernails. He hadn’t been able to get the grease off his hands before leaving Donovan Ford, despite five minutes at the sink with the gritty GOJO hand soap that always left his hands dry and cracked.
Becky returned, set the fresh Bud Light bottle before him along with a cheeseburger. “Stop using the silverware to clean your fingernails. That’s disgusting.”
“You my mother now?”
“I’m your waitress. And hang up your jacket. It’s dripping water all over the booth.” She pointed to his Gore-Tex Ski-Doo jacket and to the pool of water beside him.
He draped it over the back of the booth. “You’re worse than my mother.”
“I see you more often than she does, that’s for sure—every damned night.”
He pointed at the cheeseburger. “I didn’t order a burger.”
She wiped a ring of perspiration from the table. “You don’t eat enough. It’s on me.”
“If I was hungry,” he said, “I’d have ordered something.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” she said and tucked the cloth into her apron. “I’m worried about you, Teddy. You come in here every night, drink four or five beers, eat a few peanuts, and stare at paintings on your computer.”
She wasn’t exactly correct, but she was close enough to make him nervous. He closed his laptop. “How do you know what I look at?”
“Like I said, I wait on you every night. You’ve lost weight, especially lately. I’m worried about you.”
“I look at lots of things,” he said, “not just paintings.”
“Who cares what you look at? Eat the burger, Teddy, please.” She moved off.
On the TV over the bar he saw his brother’s smiling face. Steven Donovan, owner, the caption read. Steven—walking around the sales lot at Donovan Ford, smiling at the camera, telling the world about the low goddamned prices.
Through the darkened window, Ted could scarcely make out the Aroostook River, black and fast-moving this March night. He’d always had an artist’s sensibility and now saw the metaphor that lay before him: football-sized chunks of ice, reflecting the lights from Main Street, danced past and soon were out of sight.
Like the major-market TV career he still thought about a quarter century after throwing it away when he left Emerson College.
He’d gone to Boston to study with budding journalists from the world over. But then in March of 1990 he drove back to Aroostook County, knowing no matter how successful he was at WAGM, a tiny CBS affiliate station, he’d pass on offers to move on to a larger market. He’d have to turn them down. After the second offer—from a Philadelphia station—he quit network news altogether, and he had been working as an automotive technician for his brother ever since.
But he still believed in destiny.
“How’s the burger?”
He turned back to Becky.
“Good,” he said, “but I won’t be able to finish it. Just a few bites. Ever read Dostoyevsky?”
She shook her head. “Are you about to say something interesting again?”
“He wrote that ‘an extraordinary man has the right to decide in his own conscience to overstep certain obstacles for the practical fulfillment of his idea.’ Isn’t that great?”
“I love it when you say stuff like that.”
He knew she did. Secretly, he hoped it led to something more between them, even if just for a night.
His eyes left her face and refocused on the dancing ice chunks again. He’d read that line hundreds of times. And he’d faced obstacles his entire life. So why shouldn’t he be allowed to “overstep” a few? No one else had the guts to take the chance. Hadn’t the world been talking about what he’d done for twenty-five years? And maybe he hadn’t fully abandoned his journalism career. Looking at art? Certainly. But researching it, too, for a book. And for much more. After all, he was an expert on the subject. His knowledge of art had distinguished him at Emerson.
She looked at him. “Waiting your table is never dull, Teddy. I’ll say that.”
“I aim to please.”
“I’ve always meant to ask”—she tapped the Boston Globe, which lay before him—“why do you read the Boston papers? Why not the local news in the Star Herald?”
She was right. He always had a copy of the Globe, even if it wasn’t that day’s edition, and he read it cover to cover. The real answer to her question had two parts, but he shared only one: “I like big-city news.”
“You miss doing the news on TV?”
“It’s been years,” he said. “You’re probably the only one who even remembers I was a newscaster.”
“I remember because you were so good,” she said. “Too good for the little station in this town. I always thought you’d start here and end up on the CBS Evening News.” She smiled warmly.
“The next Scott Pelley?”
“That could’ve been you.”
“Not a chance,” he said. “Thanks, but I’m happier working on cars,” he lied, forcing a smile.
Destiny and sacrifice, he thought.
“I respect that,” she said. “Growing a beard?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t like that she’d noticed that, either. In the coming days, the beard would be necessary.
She nodded and pushed her hair behind her ears. He liked the way she wore her hair. Not quite sure why. Maybe it made her look like she had when she’d been in high school, when they’d both been young.
“I like the beard,” she said. “Kind of cute.” And she moved off again, went to the bar and talked to Peter Dye, the high school history teacher who tended bar four nights a week. Were they an item?
He liked Becky, liked hearing her say he could’ve been more. But her compliments, even so many years after his decision to quit his TV job, reminded him why he’d given it up: because six years ago, after waiting nearly two decades, he believed he’d found a way to unload what had become his burden. And with that proposed sale, he might achieve his destiny—to become truly “extraordinary,” as Dostoyevsky explained.
But that first offer fell through. Now the burden remained—just a while longer—tucked away, like the major-market TV career he still thought about.
7:35 p.m., 12 Higgins Drive
The open floor plan allowed her to watch him from across the house. Finally, Peyton shifted in the living room chair and set her Lisa Scottoline novel on her lap.
“Tommy,” she said, “how’s the math homework going?”
He was working at the dining room table and shrugged, not looking up. “You just asked me that a little while ago. It’s going the same.”
He was right. She’d asked that same question not fifteen minutes earlier. But she could see the struggle on his face. And it killed her to watch him—his pencil stuttering across the page, his eyebrows creasing like clenched fists as his face pinched in concentration.
Dishes had been cleared, the woodstove fed. Through the window she could see snow falling hard, and she could hear the backdraft in the chimney. A strong wind was rolling in from New Brunswick, Canada, fighting against the hot air inside the flue. The forecast called for six inches of blowing snow. In this region, where fifty-below-zero temperatures literally occurred, Strong Woman Winter never left without a fight. So a late-season storm was far from unexpected. But unwelcome, nonetheless.
“Might have a snow day tomorrow,” she teased. She set her book on the coffee table, crossed the room, and put another log in the woodstove. She’d received a quote for a pellet-burning stove and was setting aside a little money from each paycheck with that in mind. Next fall, the new stove—and a winter without the hassle and mess of wood—would be her Christmas gift to herself.
“A snow day?” he said. “You think?”
She zipped her fleece up to her chin. “Don’t risk it, Tommy. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it. Finish your work.”
But it was not to be.
The power went out five minutes later.
She walked around the house with her iPhone serving as her flashlight and lit strategically placed candles. Power outages were a way of life in Aroostook County.
She heard Tommy chuckling. “Guess I can’t finish my homework now. Too bad. I really wanted to, Mom.”
“Oh, I can hear the sadness in your voice.” She turned quickly and tickled his belly.
He squealed with laughter. Then, when she stopped, he said, “I’m too old for that, Mom.”
“I’ll be tickling you on your wedding day.”
“That’ll never happen. I’m not getting married. I’ll be a Border Patrol agent.”
They’d reached the kitchen, and she lit the candle on the center island. She pulled out a stool, sat, and he followed suit.
“Border Patrol agents get married, Tommy.”
He shrugged.
“I was married. You know that.”
“Yeah, but I just think it’s better if you don’t.”
“Don’t get married?”
He nodded. His eyes were focused on the candle. Deliberately? Was he uncomfortable?
“Why shouldn’t Border Patrol agents get married, Tommy?”
“I don’t know. I just think about you and Dad sometimes. It’s easier if you’re not married.”
“A lot of the men and women I work with are married and never get divorced. Your dad and I getting divorced has nothing to do with my job. Sometimes a marriage just doesn’t work out.”
He looked up. “Well, it’s too hard when it doesn’t. So I’m just not going to do it.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but then she did something wise: she closed it. She got up, went to the fridge, and rummaged in the dark for orange juice. Poured two glasses and returned to her stool at the island.
“You’re talking about how the divorce made you feel, and I know that, sweetie. And I’m terribly, terribly sorry.”
“It didn’t hurt me,” he said, tears in his eleven-year-old eyes—eyes that had seen the world get very big very quickly. For a split-second she thought of Aleksei Vann. Maybe the boys weren’t so different. Part of her wanted to tell Tommy what really happened: Jeff simply walked out, left her to raise him alone in Texas. But she wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t turn him against his father, no matter what said father was like.
She would, however, try to provide a better role model for him.
“Are you ready for your karate competition this weekend?”
He nodded.
“You’ve been working hard,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Is Stone a tough teacher?”
He nodded. “But he says I’m ready.”
“That’s great,” she said. “I’m so proud of you, of how you’ve stuck with it. Not everyone does. Not everyone has it inside them to do it. It takes a lot of work and discipline to earn belts. You ought to be proud.”
“I am kind of proud.” He was looking at her now, smiling.
She’d positioned Stone into the conversation—had manipulated Tommy to do so and didn’t feel great about that. But it was a conversation they needed to have.
“I want to talk about Stone, Tommy.”
“What about him? He’s my karate teacher. That’s all.”
“He might be someone you can do things with, someone you can talk to.”
“I don’t need that. I have you.”
“You do have me.”
“And I’m the man of the house, Mom.”
“That’s an awful big burden, pal.”
“Don’t call me pal. I’m not a little kid. It’s not a burden.” He turned and looked at the candle flame.
“Tommy, nothing between you and I would change if Stone moved in. I would never do anything unless I thought it would benefit you. I think this could make your life better. I want you to know that.”
“We don’t need anybody but Dad.”
“Tommy, we still have Dad,” she said, but her statement made no sense, and the conversation was getting away from her.
“Well, he can’t come back if Stone’s here.”
She looked at him and inhaled deeply. “Tommy, I don’t think you should wait for Dad to come back.”
He turned away from the candle to look at her, eyes suddenly wide.
She only nodded—knew it would hurt him, but had to.
He got off his chair and started across the room, into the dark house.
“Tommy,” she said.
“No. Don’t talk to me!”
She heard him climb the stairs in the dark and heard his bedroom door slam. She didn’t give chase. He needed time. She finished her orange juice, rinsed both glasses, and went to bed.
The house remained dark.